Movie review: 'Woodstock' doc can't find its groove

By Al AlexanderFor the Patriot Ledger

Thursday

Jun 13, 2019 at 2:50 PM

It’s tough to top one of the greatest documentaries of all time, and sure enough, Barak Goodman’s made-for-PBS “Woodstock: Three Days that Defined a Generation” proves a pale facsimile of Michael Wadleigh’s “Woodstock.”

It’s tough to top one of the greatest documentaries of all time, and sure enough, Barak Goodman’s made-for-PBS “Woodstock: Three Days that Defined a Generation” proves a pale facsimile of Michael Wadleigh’s “Woodstock.” That three-hour 1970 gem in which a young Martin Scorsese served as assistant director, remains the ultimate chronicle of the incomparable “three days of peace, love and music.”

It sets one wondering who thought it a good idea, especially when the finished product is nothing more than recycled footage (much of it from “Woodstock”) and photos accompanied by faceless voiceovers by concert attendees, organizers and a handful of the performers, with much of the latter also plucked from other sources. The result is a remarkably lazy work bearing all the markings of a film tossed together on the fly after it suddenly dawned on the PBS execs that August marks the 50th anniversary of the concert that, as the title states, defined a generation.

One must assume the network’s target audience consists of youngsters too young to remember either the concert or Wadleigh’s sparkling Oscar-winner. They might be impressed, but I guarantee they’ll be more inspired by seeking out the original, which unlike this one, was filled with uninterrupted performances by some of the most iconic folk and rock acts of the 20th century. Here, you’ll struggle to find much of the music, and when you do, Goodman often overlays it with concertgoers reminiscing about how great it was to experience a performance -- like Jimi Hendrix’s lacerating, middle-finger of a rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner -- that the director refuses to let us hear for ourselves.

Most painful is the roteness of a story so often told it’s been indelibly etched. You know the tune: Four enterprising promoters join forces to stage a music-and-arts festival in the Catskills, battle logistics and government red tape to present their “Aquarian Exposition,” then sit back and watch a huge monetary investment wash away in the rain and mud because they failed to establish a viable means of selling tickets to the 400,000 pilgrims descending upon the tiny hamlet of Bethel, N.Y., in August 1969.

Even the little tidbits -- like the rush to find a new location (on Max Yasgur's farm) after being booted at the last minute from the original site in Wallkill, and how the residents of Bethel came to the rescue after the festival ran out of food and drink midway through the weekend -- carry a warmed-over air. And the disembodied testimonial bromides by the concertgoers and organizers are equally dull and uninsightful. Did the event really open doors to a kumbaya of peace and understanding; or, like on “Mad Men,” did it spawn a germ of an idea on Madison Avenue for how best to attack a whole new generation of consumers?

Like a lot of things, Goodman ("Cancer: The Emperor of All Maladies") fails to explore it. But his worst faux pas is his failure to include more music than talk. What was he thinking? It’s like compiling a study of the Patriots’ dynasty and omitting Tom Brady. The only part I found remotely intriguing were the contributions of the Hog Farm led by Hugh “Wavy Gravy” Romney. The famous hippie California commune (flown in via private jet) supplied food, drink, medical care and security; or as Wavy puts it, “a please force instead of a police force,” as in could you “please” not do that.

The rest is just a lot of repetitive footage of massive traffic jams, shirtless (men and women) youth wearing stoned looks and cakes of mud. None of it close to compelling. Perhaps the film will play better when it makes its TV debut in August. But on the big screen, it’s feeble. And coming as it does so close on the heels of Netflix’s awesome “Fyre” doc, this chronicle of a music festival boondoggle ain’t so groovy, man.